To Cry
by Minnow In The Clouds
Summary: In the arms of an affectionate Ranger, the emotionless Legolas learns what it is to feel.


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To Cry

Part 1/1

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By Minnow in the Clouds

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Disclaimer: I have no hopes of ever owning any part of the Lord of the Rings franchise, no matter how hard I try to acquire it; I am not acquiring any sort of material profit by writing this, and I don't mean to insult anybody homophobic or underage who may read this.

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Warnings: This is an R-Rated SLASH story, meaning it contains a graphic relationship in between two consenting males.

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Summary: In the arms of an affectionate Ranger, the emotionless Legolas learns what it is to feel.

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Feedback: If you're taking the time to read this I a thousand times thank you and promise that, when I find the time, I will reply if you write a review. I much appreciate criticism as long as I can use it to attempt and improve on my writing style. If you do want to review, you can just review via here or contact me at tomorrow_is_eternal@hotmail.com. I don't have MSN.

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Additional Notes: This can be treated as a Prequel to '_Loophole_', though it was not written as one. I'm not exactly proud of this story for reasons that will most likely be apparent if you read it, so I excuse you in advance for any mental anguish reading this may cause you. Otherwise, enjoy! (=OD)

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"I'm so sorry," Aragorn offered to Thranduil, bowing his head mournfully. Thranduil only nodded gravely at the human, raising an eyebrow while he looked him over, as a farmer charts a parcel of land to see if its worth harvesting.

"He fought bravely," said the King of Mirkwood in a voice sharp as glass. He straightened himself, measuring his height against this offending Mortal who so gallantly decided to invade in his life, squaring his shoulders. "He would have made a beautiful King," added Thranduil with a touch of boasting-it was as though he had to affirm his position compared to the lowly Mortal.

Aragorn nodded, and promptly Thranduil turned away and progressed to join his daughter where she stood a few feet off, whispering harsh words to her. Aragorn watched in amazement as she bitterly wiped away the moisture that caught on her eyelashes, raising her head. Where, seconds before, a crumpled being who defined _grief _stood almost weeping, there was an ivory statue looking stolidly forward, grief forgotten. 

The man looked away, furrowing his brow in confusion. The Elves he knew were a type to freely express all of their emotions, to a degree far more heightened than Aragorn could ever wish to experience. He had seen how Elrohir had wept learning that his Mirkwood Friend, Thranduil's Firstborn, had been slain by Orcs within his own borders. But he had also seen how Galadriel and Celeborn gazed at each other with all the affection they could muster without touching, proving that not only did the Elves mourn in ways that were incomprehensibly great, they also loved.

Aragorn's eyes caught on a blonde figure, clinging to the fringes of the crowd as though mingling with these elves would taint him somehow. He glanced up, sensing Aragorn's gaze, and for a moment their eyes locked; sapphire orbs cut roughly past Aragorn's russet eyes and bore open his soul, for a moment. Never before had Aragorn felt so undone by just a glance. Then, the Blonde brusquely turned away, lowering his brows slightly in a look bordering hostility.

"Elladan," he whispered softly through the corner of his mouth, his fingertips dropping lightly onto his Brother's shoulder. The raven-haired elf started slightly, too lost in his reverie of mourning to have heard Aragorn's voice. He looked up at Aragorn from where he sat, concern written over his face. "Who is that?" Aragorn asked, gesturing vaguely towards the blonde he had seen. 

"Prince Legolas, of Mirkwood; youngest of Thranduil," Elladan recited. "Poor lad," he continued, noticeably dropping his voice for only Aragorn's attentive ears. "There had never been anybody closer to Malorn than Legolas," Elladan said with a sigh. "He must be so hurt…" Elladan trailed off, staring toward a small cluster of Elves hurriedly speaking in their own tongue, obstructing Aragorn and Elladan's view of the Prince.

"He does not appear to mourn; I have not seen him shed a tear," Aragorn whispered distastefully. He recalled Legolas' sister, gravely scolded by her father into stony silence when he caught her crying. Aragorn furrowed his brow, trying to grasp the concept dancing tantalizingly out of reach of his mind's grasp. Thinking slowly, as though each word reeling through his brain was in Dwarvish, he considered: _Perhaps Legolas does not know what it is to cry._

Legolas shivered from where he stood, glancing up once again towards the man that had earlier stared at him, but he had left.

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When next they met, barely a day had passed. Elrond had invited Thranduil and his three remaining children to breakfast with Elrond and his immediate family. It was a quiet, awkward affair; though Thranduil and Elrond spoke with vehemence about the perils within Thranduil's borders, the Greenleaf children that sat, attentively straightbacked, across from their Father spoke not a word lest they were addressed by name. However, the lack of animate conversation gave Aragorn a chance to retreat into his chair, and gravely observe the Youngest Prince of Mirkwood. Of the three, he seemed somehow different. He was emotionally restless, which Aragorn could see by the glint in his eyes. Not knowing he was being watched, Legolas didn't have any reason to battle down his emotions.

Something within the elf was desperately trying to break free, some lively, ardent spirit eating away at the defences that years of discipline at his fathers hands had erected. Years of bitter sadness, absolute confusion, suppressed effervescence and a thousand songs were jailed in, as it seemed to Aragorn, a prison that no longer wished to hold them. Without reason, Aragorn firmly decided that he would eat away at this dungeon within the Elf, would free him. 

Legolas glanced up and for the second time Aragorn was nearly struck down by the force of the gaze. Hatred glanced, sharper than any blade, through the Elf's pupils in a plausible glint, infuriated at being caught unawares while the hidden feelings, even for a moment, surfaced. Aragorn nearly reeled back at the intensity of the gaze, but forced himself to neutrally return the gaze for several seconds. Resolved in his earlier set task, Aragorn's lips twitched; a vague spasm at the corners of his lips, before they gently lifted. Legolas jerked backwards as though he had been struck, staring at the man in confusion, before reluctantly glancing back at the tabletop.

Three quarters of an hour later, Elrond and Thranduil mutually agreed to adjourn to the library, set on looking up some ancient tale in one of Rivendell's many books. Out of politeness, the rest of the table rose with the pair, and waited until they had left before leaving their separate ways. Legolas glanced about, charting the room and the corridors that branched out from it in each direction, before swiftly leaving eastwards. Aragorn followed the lithe creature, respectfully falling several paces behind.

Minutes later, the lithe creature before him turned in an ornate swirl of flaxen hair; for a fleeting moment his expression was that of utter confusion, before he pinpointed the source of his distress. He straightened himself, his gaze sweeping over the man that stood now before him. 

Aragorn was taken aback; the realisation startled him into muteness for an awkward moment. Legolas was _beautiful. _Not the general beauty of the Elves, but an elevated type of fairness that seemed too ethereal for Aragorn to even look upon. Legolas was pale-skinned, his hair a wave of gold silk that barely caressed his shoulders before rolling down his back. His lips were parted, only slightly, the tip of one of Legolas' teeth visible on the bottom lip. His eyebrows were several shades darker than his hair, but that only gave his face a certain character. 

Aragorn caught his chin within his hand, gently running his thumb down the curve of the Elf's unexplainably appealing bottom lip. Caught, somehow, unawares Legolas looked up with shock, and then disdain warring with the passion, the desperate need for comfort in his eyes. The mental tension surrounding this regal elf was almost tangible-and it took every ounce of his resolve to keep Aragorn from taking the fair creature in his arms, coddling and worshipping him until the pain had passed, and the conflicts were resolved.

"_Prince Legolas,_" he said meaningfully. 

"Let me pass," came the Elf's voice, commanding and yet strained. He dropped his gaze once again from the perplexingly sturdy one of this Mortal. Very rarely had the Prince of Mirkwood ever had to avert his eyes from those of another being. The Lady Galadriel, with eyes of diamonds, stirred something within Legolas that dampened his resolve to keep eye contact with her for very long. Thranduil, feverish in his anger, frightened his son into submissively gazing upon the ground, every time. But never a _mortal._

"Prince Legolas," Aragorn repeated. What must he say to touch the spirit of this stoic being? Not even the death of his own brother and best friend could move this Elf to tears-when so freely the rest of his species wept at the most trivial sadness. 

Aragorn stirred out of his thoughts, realising he still held the Prince's chin beneath his fingers, and still hadn't finished his sentence. Legolas looked at him with an almost bored expectancy. Did Aragorn really see a longing behind the surfaced emotions of arrogance, of pride? Could he really perceive the Elf's need for Aragorn to finish his sentence? "Never mind," concluded Aragorn bitterly, dropping the Elf's face. 

The man left with such haste he didn't see the sadness suddenly overtaking the Elf's features, nor the glance the blonde threw over his shoulders as he tracked the footsteps of the man who, somehow, had gotten through to him without uttering a word, even if it was only in the most minute way.

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Damn it, cursed the Elf, throwing his fist against the wall of his chamber. He bowed his head forward, satisfying himself for a moment by the dull pain as his skull made contact with the wall. _Damn it, Legolas. He is but a man. Get over it, _he scolded, tightening his fist. _He could never want you. _

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But he did! He did! He touched you-he tried to speak to you as none as. At breakfast, did he not smile? Smile despite the disappointment you are? 

Legolas bit his lip fiercely, the metallic taste of blood soon entering his own mouth. He winced, hitting his head lightly on the wall once again. What if this man did want him, impossibly? What if a being did want to see Legolas, touch him, _love him, _despite how repulsive the Elf knew he was. What if there was somebody who longed to gather the Elf in his arms and assure him that he _was _beautiful, despite what his father and kingdom so passionately told him.

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Speak to him, Legolas shouted at himself. The blonde shook his head. _No. No, nothing would become of it, only more hurt, only more assurance I am just another brat of Mirkwood. _

Without knowing he did so, Legolas' expression of self-loathing became one of absolute blankness, the resolve in his mind not showing in his stature as he hunched out of his room in search of that mortal.

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Aragorn stood with his back to Legolas in Elrond's magnificent, wide gardens, shoulders hunched as if the man was deep in thought, brooding. 

"Aragorn, I-" Legolas began, then bit his already bloodied lip. Aragorn spun in shock-it was the first time the Prince had offered him any speech aside from the words he spoke out of duty. It was the closest to a companionable phrase, though pathetic it was, that in his long years the Elf had ever uttered. He broke off, looking mournfully up at the man. Perhaps he didn't know what he was going to say, or perhaps he just couldn't find the words.

The man furrowed his brow, staring at the utter confusion plastered like a second skin over the Elf's face. For a moment neither spoke, instead reveled in the intense tension that surrounded them. Aragorn longed to reach out and stroke the flawless alabaster of the Elf's cheek, to taste the smooth lips with the tip of his tongue, devour the consenting Elf with his eyes in the middle of the no-longer-lonely night.

"Forget it," muttered the Elf, moving to twist away, but Aragorn caught him by the arms, forcefully twisting the lithe body around until they stood inches apart, Legolas sucking in a breath and staring at Aragorn with wavering eyes, Aragorn digging his hands hungrily deeper into the muscled flesh of the Elf's shoulders. The blonde tilted his head back, slowly blinking back some unnamed emotion, to heighten the visual contact between him and this mysterious mortal. Without warning, Aragorn dipped his head forward. Conscious thought was ripped from his head, the noise of the world fading to a toneless drone, no longer important. All that mattered was the feel of Legolas beneath his lips, the tangy, sweet taste of the elf on his tongue. In the middle of that garden all that mattered was the certain knowledge that, on that night like so many others, in the climax of a fragrant spring in Imladris, the sultry, tearless, emotionless Prince of Mirkwood kissed him back.

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Aragorn's ears felt as though in physical pain by the words Legolas had spoken of his heritage, of all the boundaries and rules that had been so clearly plotted about him like a fence, containing him deep within himself. By the end of their whispered conversation where they sat, close together, in the Gardens Aragorn felt the weight of teardrops on his eyes. He looked at Legolas sadly, taking the Elf's face between his hands, hoping to meet an expression similar to his own-hoping with all of his being that Legolas at last felt some sadness, having exposed himself. Instead, he met confusion.

Gently, Legolas lifted a slender hand, and swept the tip of his finger underneath Aragorn's eye, touching the tears that hid there. He furrowed his brow deeply, staring at the silvery remnants of an unshed tear clinging to his fingertip, before the liquid ran off his fingers and was lost amidst the grass. He shook his head slowly, looking at Aragorn, fondly, but with the sadness of his history showing through his eyes. 

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That's something, Aragorn thought. _Sadness is better than nothing._

Legolas hesitantly leaned forward, unsure of how to initiate contact, laying his hands behind Aragorn's head. So gently he kissed him that Aragorn barely felt the warming touch of Legolas' lips against his own, and pressed forward, his own hands wrapping about Legolas' waist to encouragingly tug him onto his knees, as Aragorn was. Aragorn leaned against the Elf, welding their chests together and kissing him with reverence. The man poked the tip of his tongue against the Elf's lips timidly, but was immediately granted entrance, tilting his head to draw their lips closer. 

Legolas was suspended in time, between a world of princely pride, regal dinner parties and endless conversations with every Elven noble that existed within Middle Earth and a world of love on sunlight-dappled clearings in the forest, of discreet touches to the hand in a crowded room, affection rapidly stolen at midday when they wouldn't be interrupted. Eons passed behind his closed eyes, as Aragorn greedily breathed in his low moan, and he made a decision; though he was born a Prince, the youngest of Mirkwood and the noble son of Thranduil, first and foremost Legolas was _himself. _His hands strayed to Aragorn's tunic, unbuttoning it so deftly that Aragorn didn't feel it being undone until the chill of the evening's breath stroked at his bare chest.

Fueled by passion, Aragorn began undressing his Elf, but was stopped by a gentle hand laid across his chest. "Aragorn," breathed Legolas with a furrowed brow, nervousness clearly written through every nuance in his flawless face. "I've not done this," he said awkwardly, knowing that the man would understand the depth of the words, the importance of the statement when uttered by Elven lips. 

Aragorn hesitated, looking for any shred of uncertainty in the Elf's eyes, but found only a strong resolve, almost begging the man to continue. Gentling his motions, the Ranger gently ran his thumb down the Elf's ear, relishing the gasp of pleasure that Legolas released as he arched into the Man's arms. He suddenly felt the heat of Legolas' lips on his neck, tracing patterns. He knew that there was more to this than simply a want for the Elf to release himself to the world; there was some sort of unnamed affection that would, hopefully, blossom.

"You will learn," Aragorn said gently. Legolas pulled his head away from Aragorn's neck, running a hand through the man's tangled hair. He looked at Aragorn for grounding, and then beamed with a slight nod. Not needing any more prompting, Aragorn shed the Elf of the rest of his burdensome clothing and slowly made love to him, a gentle affair that could be described as nothing but loving; gentle touches with shy fingertips, lips that barely touched another's flesh, melding with each other amidst the wi0de expanse of deep-green grass and decorative flowers, as the morning came. 

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The sensation was unexplainable. It was as though all Love in the world had for that night had eyes for none but the Elf, caressing him warmly from within. Each vein within his trembling form was warmed to the point he physically radiated passion and beauty through the temperature of his flesh. Hair matted across his brow, his naked, flushed body crested with an attractive sheen of perspiration, he buried his head into the inexorably inviting crook of his lover's neck, and learned there, with motives far differing from the usual ones behind the action, learned to cry. 

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Authors Notes 2: I _told _you it was terrible (looks pointedly at imminent flames) I _did _warn you. Ah, well, its all part of improving, right? (hopeful smile). Thanks again for reading this! Reviews are much appreciated. (=OD)

~Min. 


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